Stages
by littlestrangesoul
Summary: "This used to be so easy. What was happening to them?" Stiles and Lydia and what it means to recover.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Here's the beginning to my first potentially multi-chapter Stydia story. I want to go through the stages of their grieving process together. Let me know if you think I should continue! Reviews are so loved, as always.

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**Stages**

He feels weird around her. Well, he feels weird around everyone. But especially her. She had lost a boyfriend and a best friend within a 48 hour time period and the only person to blame had his face. This body had kidnapped her, hissed horrible things in her ear, made her fear for her own life and everyone she cared for. This body had _hurt_ her. Maybe weird wasn't the right word.

There was no right word.

He doesn't know what to expect when he goes over to her house, but he's still Stiles and he needs to see her. He's shuffling at the door, hands in his pockets. Mrs. Martin smiles at him tiredly, as though completely unsurprised to see him. Which makes sense. She doesn't know that his hands had destroyed Lydia Martin's life.

"She's upstairs, honey," Mrs. Martin says as he tries to stutter out a greeting. He's surprised as he's let into their home by the sounds of a vacuum coming from Lydia's bedroom.

The sight of Lydia, her back to him, aggressively vacuuming her floor makes him stop in the doorway and assess. Her room is nearly spotless – he hasn't seen it many times, but it's cleaner than he's ever witnessed. Her astounding collection of clothes is neat and organized in her closet, color coded to perfection. Her bulletin boards, once cluttered with photos, are completely blank. Then he notices the boxes stacked neatly against the nearest wall. He chances a look inside the first, Lydia still completely oblivious to his presence.

It's all photographs. He can see Alison Argent smiling up at him, her cheek pressed against Lydia's. He can see Aiden, arm slung around a smirking Lydia's shoulders. He can see himself in a more candid shot – Lydia's facing the camera, obviously in mid conversation with whoever snapped the photo. And he is sitting next her, looking at her like she was the center of the universe. He can't help but reach inside and pick that one out. The realization that this had once hung in her room makes his eyes sting.

The sound of the vacuum cuts off abruptly and he's looking up to find Lydia Martin staring at him. She's in one of her classic floral dresses, though its look a little looser than he remembered. Her feet are bare, one foot tapping nervously.

"Stiles," she breathes. She steps forward eagerly, and then falters. He can see that her hands are shaking slightly, twisting the cord of the vacuum around in her fingers. He finds that he can't move forward either – he didn't know guilt and sadness could be so stifling.

This used to be so easy. What was happening to them?

Lydia seems to snap out of her uncertainty, eyes shining slightly manically as she attempts a smile. It's not even close to realistic, but Stiles finds that his breath still catches regardless.

"Sorry, you caught me during the middle of spring cleaning. I figured it was time to go through some of my stuff. We'll be applying to college soon, and then I'll be moving out and I won't need most of this stuff. So why not start now, you know? I feel like it's just a good time to start."

She's rambling, and he registers that she's trying to justify to him what she's doing and that hey, rambling used to be _his_ thing. She's standing more like Lydia now, hands folded primly in front of her, back straight and eyes daring him to tell her that she's not perfectly fine.

"You won't need the pictures?" Stiles questions, feeling at a loss. She wasn't fine; he could see that quite clearly. Neither of them was fine.

"Oh, um, those. I just thought…" she's trailing off, curling in on herself as her eyes find the floor, all sense of bravado and denial gone. "They are just hard to look at, you know?"

He's nodding at that, though he knows she can't see him. He knows. He's considered taking his down as well. He understands the desire to push it all away, put it on a box, and forget what he's lost. But he just can't bring himself to do it – between all the horrible memories, there are some damn good ones. And he can't let Lydia forget that.

This thought propels him forward, still holding the image of the two of them during better days. Her eyes are tracking his movements a little warily. Stiles offers her the photo, leaving a few feet between them. He doesn't want to push her, doesn't want to rush her. Slowly, she's reaching out too, taking the picture from his hands, eyes softening at the look on his face – both back then and right now.

"Don't throw them away." He's not pleading with her, trying his best to keep his voice firm and level. "Don't throw away the good stuff because of the bad, Lyds." He just wants her to know that these memories – the ones frozen in time – will be the best defense she has against the heartache.

Lydia seems to hear his words slowly, and then she's launching herself at him, her curls right under his chin, hands pressing between his shoulder blades. His hands are immediately grabbing her back, winding around her waist, holding her close. Her voice is small, reverberating slightly against his chest, so unlike her normal self that it makes his heart ache.

"Will you help me?"

...

Stiles and Lydia stand shoulder to shoulder, placing each and every photograph from her boxes back where they belong. Sometimes he gets the placement wrong and she's good-naturedly swatting his clumsy hands away, pressing the pictures in place herself. They don't speak, and it's good. It's okay. It's simple work that gives them pause occasionally. The last photo is the hardest, but maybe the best.

Alison is sitting in between them on Scott's living room couch. Her curly brown hair is wild and long, her eyes bright, her smile beautiful. Her head is leaning on Lydia's shoulder, her opposite arm wound around Stiles' neck. Scott is lounging behind them, striking a signature ridiculous pose.

He realizes suddenly that he's crying. He glances sideways at Lydia and notices the tears streaming down her face too. They both stare at the bulletin board for a long minute, eyes glancing over tokens of lives ended much too soon. He's startled by a nudge against his shoulder. Stiles Stilinski looks down into the face of Lydia Martin, tears still lingering on her pale cheeks.

"Hey," she says, as though this is the first time they've spoken.

"Hey," he says back, because maybe it is. Maybe this is a fresh start. Maybe they're going to be okay.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Thanks for reviewing and reading this story so far! I am feeling really inspired to write this story recently - I'm thinking of it as small moments between Lydia and Stiles. Sometimes sadness isn't a big affair and love isn't a dramatic declaration. It's just simple. Let me know what you think!

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The pack might be smaller, but it's still a pack. And Scott had decreed that the pack, if all members agreed, would return to school on a Tuesday. This Tuesday.

It's a surreal experience. After walking around for so long as someone else entirely, he feels strange being back in this school, healthy and whole. The way he remembers it is haunting – dark shadows, his body weakened, and a face that looks like his shattering before his very eyes. But then he blinks and he sees it for what it is on this particular Tuesday. Sunlight streams through the windows, students are talking good-naturedly in the halls, and it's safe. Right now, he's safe.

He catches up to Scott by their lockers. He immediately takes his usual spot, leaning against the metal as Scott pulls his books out one by one. He looks across the hall, and there's Malia, smiling at him over Coach's shoulder charmingly as she gets the typical New Girl lecture. He smiles back, but it doesn't feel genuine. He can't help but see another new girl in her place – long, dark hair and that Allison Argent smile too vivid in his memory.

"Hey," Scott nudges his shoulder, jerking him out of his guilt-ridden thoughts.

"Hey, caught up on all your reading yet?" Stiles really can't help but mock his best friend. It must have been something about the air in Beacon Hills High that turned them both into freshmen again.

"Dude, not funny." But Scotts' rolling his eyes and grinning all the same, his eyes a little tighter than the last time they'd had this conversation. It feels strange that life had ever been this normal.

It's as if they've mutually decided with this interaction that today, they would try their best to be okay. Scott slams his locker shut, launching them into a conversation about his dad's latest attempts at a family pizza night. The story is dumb and told in typical Scott dramatics, and he finds himself laughing – something he honestly can't remember doing in months.

He is so intent on pushing down the panic that he feels being back in this normal, everyday world that he almost doesn't think about where Lydia Martin is. He catches himself halfway through calculus, fear irrationally gripping his heart when he realizes. She's not in the halls, they don't share any morning classes, and the feeling of panic only rises when he doesn't catch sight of her long red hair in the cafeteria.

...

He had asked her if she needed a ride this morning, eager to feel the calm that he had felt standing in her bedroom merely a few days previous before the imminent stress of today. But she had told him she would drive herself, and he didn't want to push.

It was only when clamoring into his Jeep that he'd remembered – Lydia had always taken Allison to school. They had always walked in together, laughing, the two best girls he'd ever known. No wonder she had wanted to be alone.

...

The cafeteria feels too loud almost immediately. Scott and Kira are sitting together, all soft smiles and tenderness. Danny is there too, making small talk and Stiles can tell from here that the often sarcastic bite from his words is absent. He realizes, with a pang, that this is the pack now. There are no twins to glare at across the room, no Allison to stab at her salad too aggressively while telling a story. He never thought he'd miss Isaac's complete inability to understand comedic timing, but even his absence feels like a physical blow. And he quite suddenly decides he doesn't want to be here, pretending that everything is good. He needs to find Lydia.

He's backing out of the cafeteria before anyone can see him, quickly making his way through the halls, eager to get to fresh air and get away from the suffocating feeling in his throat. His increasing panic has made his senses heightened, and it's as he's rushing past the girls restroom that he hears it.

Crying.

"_Oh, Lydia,_" he can't help but think immediately, feet instantly coming to a halt, breath suddenly back in his chest. Because he knows that sound anywhere – how terrible is it that he's seen her cry enough times to recognize her tears?

Stiles stands in front of the door, debating. It's the girl's restroom. And he's most certainly not a girl.

But then he hears a particularly heart-wrenching sob and he's swinging the door open purposefully.

"Lydia?"

A little gasp. A sniffle. A cough. And a very small voice: "Stiles, this is very clearly the women's restroom."

He can't help but chuckle at that, resting his forehead on the door of the one closed stall in the room.

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

She doesn't say anything to that, and he doesn't know what to say either. He had barged in the women's restroom to comfort her, but now that sounded a little crazy in his mind. He's half thinking about what to do if someone comes in and half wondering what to do if she comes out.

"Are you hungry?" Lydia asks quietly, her voice already a little stronger than a moment previously, still muffled by the barrier between them.

"Absolutely starving."

He must have said the right answer. Lydia's slowly unlocking the door, her pale face peeking out of the stall, green eyes luminous from her tears. She doesn't say anything, just walks out of the bathroom. And he thinks this feels a little more normal. Lydia Martin, not even questioning that he'll follow her.

She's walking determinedly down the hall, and he can't help but be a little too distracted by the sway of her hips to realize they're walking away from the cafeteria before it's too late and the sunlight is blinding him.

...

Lydia doesn't stop until she's in front of his jeep, back leaning against the passenger side door.

"Where are we going?" he asks, because what about school and normality and terrible cafeteria lunch?

"Food," she states, as though it's obvious, sounding more like herself than she has in weeks. Stiles grins, nodding as she steps out of the way and he opens the door for her. Food. Nobody to save, nothing to run from. Just lunch with Lydia Martin. That's something he can do. She climbs in, hands primly folded on her lap. As he's about to close the door, she smiles at him. Well, smirks at him. That classic Lydia Martin smirk – the one he wrote poems about in middle school, the one that always made his heart pound, the one that makes him stop mid-movement right now.

"Hey Stiles?" she asks, eyes glinting with the mirth and intelligence he's so sorely missed.

"Yeah?"

"You're paying."

And that's when he realizes the path to normalcy isn't as difficult as he thought.


End file.
